Don't Look
by larkgrace
Summary: For all the brave men and women on United Airlines Flight 93. We will never forget you.


**I'm feeling the need to write a 9/11 story. So, without further ado, the disclaimer:**

**I do not own Percy Jackson.**

O-o-O

_September 11, 2001_

_United Airlines Flight 93_

_9:28 a.m._

"I can't wait to see my dad again." Annabeth Chase leaned back in her seat and grinned. "We haven't talked in ages."

"Funny, same goes for me," Nico mumbled. "Except I really don't _want _to see my dad for a long, long time."

"Very funny, Nico."

"Oh, believe me, I'm _dead_ serious."

She punched his arm. "What is it with you and Percy always trying to overpower me with sarcasm? It doesn't work for you."

The intercom binged and broadcast static for a moment, with the faint sound of a woman crying. A man began speaking in heavily accented English, saying, "Ladies and gentlemen: here the captain, please sit down and keep remaining seating." Annabeth could tell that something was wrong. The voice did _not _belong to the captain of their flight. Besides, the seat belt light had been off for half an hour now.

The voice continued, "We have a bomb on board. So sit."

_Bomb. On board. _She had heard rumors of terrorist attacks being planned, but this couldn't be happening. It was a joke. It had to be. Any second now the captain would switch back to his normal voice and say something like, "I scared you!" and the passengers would start laughing and have a great story to tell when they landed.

Men wearing red bandannas burst through the door from the cockpit, knives drawn.

Maybe it wasn't a joke after all.

For a second, Annabeth felt a rush of relief. Her boyfriend, Percy, had some business to finish in L.A. for Zeus before he could rejoin her in San Francisco. He was on a different flight. He was safe. If he were here, he probably would have done something stupid, like try to fight. There were too many mortals around who could get hurt, and besides, all the terrorists would need to do was blow the bomb—if there was a bomb—and they would all be dead.

On the other hand, if he were here, he would probably have his arm around her. She would've felt a lot safer if that were the case.

The knife-wielding lunatics began shouting and pointing, directing the passengers to the back of the plane. There was a muffled scream from the cockpit. Annabeth stood up and tugged Nico's arm, dragging him to the back row of seats.

A man, who couldn't have been any older than thirty, sat on Annabeth's other side and pulled out a cell phone as the terrorists retreated into the cockpit. She wished she had her phone with her; she wanted to call her dad, tell him what was happening. She wanted him to tell her everything was going to be fine. She wanted someone to tell her to calm down, because her head was spinning and she was hyperventilating, although that was probably because the air pressure was dropping like crazy; they must have been ascending.

_Mother, if you're listening, tell me what to do. Keep us safe. Please keep us safe._

The man hung up the phone and closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. A little girl—she looked maybe two years old—crawled into his lap and started crying. He stroked her hair and said, just loud enough for everyone to hear, "We aren't the only plane that's been hijacked. Terrorists have crashed three others. Suicide bombings. An American Airlines flight hit the Pentagon, and another hit the North Tower at the World Trade Center. Another United flight hit the South Tower." He took another breath. "No survivors of any of the crashes."

The terrorist cam over the intercom again, repeating his bomb threat and telling them to stay quiet.

A woman across the aisle leaned over and whispered, "Which United flight was it?"

"Flight 175," he responded. "Bound for Los Angeles."

Annabeth's heart fell into her stomach. _No survivors._ No. the man had heard wrong. Not that flight. It must have been a different plane. _Bound for Los Angeles. _It couldn't be him. _Suicide bombings._ No. No, this wasn't happening.

Percy's plane ticket was for flight 175.

Percy wasn't safe. He was already dead.

_No._

Nico's hand crushed her shoulder, his eyes wild. "Is it…?" he started.

She nodded. _Dead. Gone. Not coming back._

"Dear gods," she moaned, feeling sick. The plane tilted wildly; they were turning around, heading east. She couldn't begin to wonder where they were going; what did it matter? They were going to die. So many already were. She tried to remember who had been with Percy, to help him with a monster problem in L.A. Beckendorf. Clarisse. Katie Gardener and the Stoll brothers. All dead.

"What do we do?" another man in front of them breathed.

"What _can _we do?" the woman next to him wailed. "We might as well shoot ourselves now! We're as good as dead!"

_Ever the optimist, _Annabeth thought wryly. She wasn't going to admit to thinking the same things.

"We're not giving up!" she snapped. "There must be _something _we can do. Nobody else has to die." Her head was clearing with each passing second as adrenaline chased away the burning pain. She would have time to grieve later. _Now _was the time to make sure these suicidal maniacs didn't take any more innocent lives.

_Mother, help me._

The woman glared at her. "I don't know if you noticed, but those men had knives and looked very willing to use them."

"There's more than thirty of us and less than four of them," she protested. "We could overwhelm them."

"And get stabbed in the process!"

One of the terrorists poked his head out of the cockpit and spat, "Quiet!"

They were silent for a long minute. A man a few rows away said, "I say we rush them. Maybe we can take over the controls and steer the plane to safety."

"I say we don't," the woman snapped. "We'll die if we try."

"And we'll die if we don't!" the older man said. "We're dead either way. Would you like them to kill who-knows-how-many more in the process?"

Annabeth closed her eyes. _Mother, what do we do?_

She didn't expect an answer, so she was surprised when she heard, _Storm the men. Take control. It is the only way._

_They'll kill us._

_You knew that already, Annabeth. You will die a hero. This is my guidance. _

_Thank you, Athena._

Annabeth opened her eyes and found herself face-to-face with the little girl. She was clinging to her father's shoulder, wiping snot off her nose with her sleeve. "What's your name?" the child asked.

"Annabeth," she responded. "What's yours?"

"I'm Christina," she said. "Are we going to Heaven? My mommy's in Heaven. Daddy says cancer sent her there. He says Mommy's waiting for me. Is your mommy waiting for you in Heaven?"

Annabeth wiped a stray tear off Christina's chin. "No, my mommy isn't in Heaven. My boyfriend is. Hopefully we won't be going there for a very long time."

"Did cancer send your boyfriend to Heaven?"

"No." She bit her lip and silently cursed nosy children.

"What did?"

"A very bad man in a plane."

Christina's father looked up with sympathy. His expression said he knew what she meant.

"Did you love your boyfriend? Daddy says he loved Mommy a lot."

She twisted the hem of her shirt. "I loved him very much."

Christina nodded, satisfied with her answers, and crawled into Annabeth's lap to question Nico.

*#*#*

_9:55 a.m._

The passengers crowded outside the door to the cockpit, listening to the men discussing something in urgent Arabic on the other side. They were worried about something, and Annabeth knew what; they hadn't exactly been quiet as they made their way through first class.

"They've barricaded the door!" a man at the front of the group shouted back. Annabeth or Nico could have broken through, but they were near the back and couldn't maneuver forward. Christina clung to Annabeth's neck and whimpered.

"Bust it!" another man yelled, and the mass of people pressed forward. The terrorist who had been on the intercom before yelled through the door, warning them to back away now, because his friends were armed and prepared to kill. The door buckled and the mob rushed through.

The men on the other side were nearly swept off their feet by the horde of people. Annabeth watched the woman who had told them not to fight wrestle a knife out of one of their hands and slit his throat with his own weapon. She heard a voice transmitting through the radio, yelling something garbled by static.

And suddenly the plane was spinning out of control, and the screamed and toppled. The terrorist at the controls righted the plane, pulling it out of the nosedive that had knocked them off their feet. As Annabeth righted herself, he pulled the control again, and the plane spun. He did this again and again, leaving the passengers wallowing on the floor of the cabin.

Nico, who had fallen near the pilot's chair, grabbed the man's arm and pulled him to the ground. The man hit something on the instrument panel as he fell. Alarms blared. People screamed. The plane dropped, and through the window Annabeth could see the ground spiraling up at them. The plane flipped over, and the centripetal force kept them on the floor which had now become the ceiling, and her eardrums felt like they were going to explode—

_I hope you're proud of me, Mother—_

Annabeth buried Christina's tiny head in her chest and shouted, "Don't look!"

O-o-O

**To all the brave men and women on Flight 93: thank you. I cannot say those words enough. Thank you for willingly sacrificing your own lives to save so many other innocent people. We will never forget you. **

**Be safe. God bless.**


End file.
